


In Which Greg Discovers What Mycroft Likes

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry!Lestrade, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, First Time, Humor, M/M, Romance, Winter Mystrade Exchange, manipulative!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Greg was supposed to have a date for John's wedding. Goddamn Mycroft Holmes. And thank heaven for Molly and Anthea.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Greg Discovers What Mycroft Likes

**Author's Note:**

> _For mayermai --for the Mystrade Winter Exchange on tumblr. I tried to make it a little angsty and a little fluffy--with a pinch of lust. Hope you like it. : )_  
>  Note: Light spoilers for S3 E2--The Sign of Three

Greg glances to his right and sees Molly raise her eyebrow and point to the glass doors, so he nods and follows her outside. The music has slowed, and John and Mary are taking turns dancing with a few friends before they take their leave. Greg is in a piss poor mood right now and would like to leave early, but seeing as how it’s John Watson’s wedding, thinks he’d better stay. With John and his penchant for life-threatening situations, you just never know when it'll be handy to have a policeman nearby. They've nabbed one would-be murderer already--who's to say there won't be more crimes and misdemeanors to round out the festivities.

As he passes a little table on the patio, Greg scoops up a handful of chocolate-mint candies from a bowl. The mints were Mary’s idea—little mustache-shaped treats scattered in bowls all around the reception area, much to John’s dismay. Good sense of humor, that woman.

Greg decides he might as well try to salvage a little fun out of this evening, so he forces himself to smile as he approaches Molly. She's always good at cheering people up, always has a funny corpse story to share. And he'd like to hear how it’s going with Sherlock, the Sequel. Damn—what’s his name? Tim? Tom?

Molly grins and adjusts the floppy yellow bow on her head. She looks like one of his niece’s pretty little dolls tonight. A little too much lipstick and a bright pink flush on her cheeks from giggling and dancing. Doesn’t look at all like the pathologist who handles a rib spreader with ease and can tell you the weight of a human kidney just by looking at it.

Uh oh. Now she’s definitely got her scientist’s gaze trained on him.

“Why the forced smile, Greg? You’ve been moody all day. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I . . . uh . . . nothing really.” He doesn’t think he’s been _that_ obvious.

“Oh come on—I know it’s something. You’ve got the look of a man who wants to punch someone. And Sherlock’s already left the party, so you’re out of luck. Who'd you like to take a swipe at instead?”

Greg laughs as she puts up her fists and takes a boxer’s stance. “Definitely not gonna punch you, Molls. As for the grumpy mood—it’s nothing. I thought someone would be here, and I guess I’m just a little disappointed is all.”

Molly peers at him, squinting a little, and then her head bobs up and down quickly, as if she’s just figured something out. She leans close and whispers—her breath sweet with champagne and vanilla cake, “Ohhhh. You had a date and got stood up? You probably came here thinking you’d be getting off tonight. Now you’re sad and mad and sexually frustrated, all at once, am I right?”

Greg chokes on the mint he’d just popped into his mouth and Molly slaps him on the back, giggling, then offers him a sip of her water. She drags him to the other side of the garden to sit on a small stone bench, and then looks at him expectantly.

Oh God, is he going to have to talk about _him_ with her? He doesn’t talk about him with _anyone._ He’s afraid he might be struck by lightning if he dares to mention his name.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret, Greg. I know exactly how you feel.”

She really doesn’t know the first thing about how he feels, he’s sure, so he’s keeping his mouth shut. If only Sherlock would send him a stupid text now, so he’d have an excuse to bolt. He touches the phone in his pocket, but can't control it with wishing. Molly is still yammering at him.

“I’ve got my Tom now, of course. And we're having loads of sex, by the way. But before that, every wedding for the past ten years--well, I ended up with the same problem you've got. All alone. No sweetheart to dance with or to fondle my knee under the table.” She looks up at the moon and sighs.

 _Christ._ Maybe he can send himself a text. Would she notice if he just very casually took his phone from his pocket and . . .

“All the talk about true love and honeymoons and everyone dancing and cuddling and snogging. Weddings are the absolute worst when you’re alone, aren’t they? Back then, pre-Tom—I just went home horny as hell every time and got under the covers with my . . .”

Yeah, _no_. Greg doesn't want to hear this. He jumps up and starts examining the rosebushes, trying not to think about what the rest of that sentence is going to be. But honestly, he can’t help but wonder. Under the covers with pictures of Sherlock? With her vibrator? With pictures of Sherlock pasted onto her vibrator?

“Okay, Molly. I don’t really want to talk about it. Maybe we should go back inside? Get a cup of coffee?”

“You’re so right. We are not going to talk about your pathetic lack of companionship, we’re going to _do something_ about it. We’re going to find you someone for a proper bump and cuddle tonight. Now, who were you expecting? Someone from the Met or your bicycling club?”

“Nobody. Really. Nobody.”

“Nonsense. Who was it?” Molly’s got his arm in a powerful grip and is not backing down. He ought to hire her for his interrogation room. She could bring the bone saw and really scare some confessions out of the criminal class.

He squeezes his eyes shut and blurts it out. “Mycroft.”

“I’m sorry?” She releases his arm and takes a step back, her face pale, lower lip quivering either in horror or amusement—or both.

“No one. Never mind. Let’s go.”

“Not . . . Mycroft _Holmes?_ ”

“I don’t think there’s another Mycroft in the vicinity. Or on the fucking planet.”

She tips her head to one side, clearly trying to make sense of this nonsensical information. “So you’re into . . .waistcoats? Cold, calculating condescension? Umbrellas? Big black cars? What exactly is it? What on earth do you see in him? You're not _really_ together?”

Greg bristles at her attitude. He used to ask himself the same sorts of questions on a daily basis, long before he’d ever got up the nerve to test the waters with the man. Why? _Why Mycroft?_ But he’s finally accepted that passion isn't logical and he’s just head over heels.  He also doesn’t feel like trying to defend or explain himself to anyone, but he'll give it a try for Molly.

“I like _him,_ plain and simple. His face, his walk, and yes, his waistcoats. The way he battles Sherlock, then fights with everything he's got to protect him. It's rare, I know, but when he does smile, it’s brilliant. And he's actually pretty damn funny. And God, when he takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves—it’s like . . . it’s like some Regency romance where people get all hot and bothered when they see a woman’s ankle, you know? You never see Mycroft’s arms, so when you do it’s just unbelievably . . .”

 _Jesus._ Why is he telling her this? She won’t understand. He’s blushing and honestly, getting half hard just thinking about Mycroft Holmes’s naked elbows and warm, pink skin.

Molly is giggling and nodding. “Okay, I get it. It makes sense, Greg. I’m sorry I said those things. Of course, he’s quite attractive—in a Bond supervillain sort of way . . .” She nudges him with her elbow. “Just kidding. I can’t quite wrap my brain around you reading Regency romances, though . . . Can we discuss that?”

“Hey—stop it. Don’t change the subject. The point is—I really fancy the man, but I don’t much like his refusing to show up for a date in public. I could definitely do without that bloody Holmes rudeness.”

“Oh. You two haven’t been out in public, then?”

“No, I only just talked him into a real date recently. For a long time we just talked on the phone ‘til all hours. He doesn’t go in for ‘public displays.’ But I told him I wasn’t going to climb onto his lap and snog his face off at John's wedding—I just think we ought to be able to be out in the open, and this seemed like a good place to start.”

“That certainly seems reasonable.”

“Yeah, but apparently he still wants everything to be a secret. We’ve managed only three so-called dates so far—two at his house for tea. Not even a decent dinner, mind you! And then I cooked up a stir-fry at my flat last week. But that’s it. And I got nothing but a quick kiss goodnight, for all my troubles.”

“You mean you two haven’t even . . ."

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Molly. No! He’s driving me mad! I can’t wait any longer. I need him in my bed, and I need it as soon as possible!” Greg kicks the stone bench hard about a dozen times—until his toe starts to throb and burn, forcing him to stop.

“Oh dear. Well, what was supposed to happen today? Did he promise he’d be here?”

“I asked him if he’d come as my plus one, and he said yes. So of course, I bought a stupid new tie—‘cause I thought he’d like it. And I figure it's a safe bet that he’s into at least a little light bondage, you know? So a nice silk tie might come in handy. Booked a room upstairs, and brought condoms and lube. And he doesn’t even show up! Either he can’t stand the thought of being seen in public with me, or he’s had a better offer. That’s all I can figure.” Greg starts pacing in a small circle, fists clenched—again, ready to punch anyone who crosses him.

“Oh Greg, this is horrible. I won’t stand for it. Makes me want to just slap him right across the face, that tosser! You just get hold of yourself—and stop kicking things, please. I have a plan.”

“I don’t want a plan. I just want to go home.”

“Not a chance. You stay right there. I’m calling in the shock troops.”

 

*****

 

Anthea knocks on Mycroft’s door and enters with a tray of tea and macarons.

Mycroft removes his reading glasses and pushes back from his desk. He quickly snaps his laptop shut. He is still in his jogging clothes. It’s been a work-at-home day, and a trying one—what with Sherlock’s nagging phone call and Mycroft’s slight guilt about leaving Greg to fend for himself in the confetti and nuptial cheer.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes. Thought you might need a little sustenance for your late night.”

“Thank you, Anthea. I appreciate that. I’m just, uh, just catching up on some . . .”

“What were you watching?”

“I don’t think that’s any concern of yours.” He needs to cut this conversation short. He will not be interrogated by his own assistant.

“It is my concern if it puts you in a state where you’re sweating, your pupils are dilated, and you seem a bit out of breath too.”

Mycroft spins his chair around to face the portrait of young Elizabeth. She always soothes him in any crisis. When he can speak calmly, he turns around and faces Anthea’s steely stare.

“This is, I repeat, none of your concern.”

“Mr. Holmes, you didn’t fully engage the blocking software. I can see everything you do mirrored on my computer—you should remember that. I know you’ve been downloading old CCTV footage all day and putting it into a folder marked S.F. on your hard drive.”

Mycroft lays his head face down onto the cool surface of the desk and whispers, “Oh, Anthea. You shouldn’t have looked. I shall die of embarrassment.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Mr. Holmes. Do you think you’re the only one in the world with a paralyzing crush? Half the human race is in the same state you’re in at any given time.”

“Are they? How dreadful. How does anyone get any work done?”

“They don’t. What with secret crushes, tragic love affairs, and tumblr, most people in the modern world only work about 4.5 hours a week. That’s why the economy is going to hell.”

Mycroft sighs.

Anthea comes closer to the desk so she can flip the laptop open again and proceed with the interrogation. “So S.F. is “Silver Fox,” obviously. But what I don’t understand is why you only want to look at footage of Lestrade losing his cool, getting all red-faced and angry at Sherlock, the members of his team, the man who runs the coffee cart near the Yard . . . He's a bit brutish and crude, I'd say.”

“I can’t explain it. I’ve never felt this way before."

Anthea pauses, tap, tap, taps her stilettos on the floor a few times, as she always does when she's deep in thought. “It seems you have an angry!Lestrade kink, Sir.”

“Do I?” Mycroft is pleased that he can put a name to his affliction even if it doesn’t cure him. He wants someone to confirm that his observations are correct, so he asks if Anthea wouldn't mind taking a look at what he’s found. She grins and pulls up a chair next to him. She pours the tea and they each take a macaron.

The videos are riveting and get them both quite warm and breathless by the end. They watch Greg kick the tires of an ambulance that had arrived too late to save a stabbing victim; watch him push the papers off his desk in a rage and stomp on a muffin, see him screaming at Sherlock no less than eleven times. They see him yell at John Watson mercilessly when he has a hangover, and then watch him kick the tires of his police car and scold Sally Donovan.

Mycroft’s hands are shaking as he clicks the computer to the off position. He scoots himself farther under his desk to hide his erection.

Anthea fans herself with a manila folder and swallows down some of the saliva collecting in her mouth. “I don’t understand, Sir. You broke a date with him tonight. Why would you do that?”

Mycroft sighs and shifts in his chair. “If you can’t unravel that mystery, Anthea, you’re not as good as I always thought you were.”

Anthea stares at him, lost in thought for a few minutes before standing up with an evil grin spreading across her face. “If you’ll excuse me, Sir, I need to make a call.”

Mycroft's lips turn up into an evil grin too. "And I think I need to change into some proper attire."

*****

Greg takes a deep breath to collect himself and turns to Molly, who is sitting next to him in the cab, going over the plan again. “Just keep your eyes on the prize, Greg. You and Mycroft together. Naked! Tonight! Now go!”

Greg bursts into the room where Mycroft is in his soft leather chair, reading glasses perched at the end of his long nose, quietly turning the pages of _Northanger Abbey_. He’s dressed in his beige waistcoat, white linen shirt, and pinstripe trousers. His sleeves are rolled up and the tendons in his arms tense and release, tense and release as he turns the pages. He ignores Greg's entrance.

Greg sees the glittering gold pocket watch chain dangling—practically asking to be torn away. Mycroft’s dark blue tie is loosened a little—revealing a little of the soft pink neck Greg has nuzzled and bitten so many nights in his dreams.

Greg looks away. Molly told him what he has to do before he will be allowed to tear the waistcoat open and finally breathe hot kisses across Mycroft’s chest.

God help him, in his head Greg apologizes to John for using Sherlock to enhance his own sex life, but he has to do it. In order to work up the needed fury, Greg thinks about Sherlock’s most obnoxious behavior—and he goes from quiet and nervous to enraged and engorged in no time at all.

Greg throws his own jacket to the floor, followed by his tie. He screams at Mycroft from the other side of the room, “What the hell did you think you were doing? You stood me up, you bastard! You didn’t call—you just ignored me! You’ve got the manners of a goddamn hyena, Mycroft Holmes!!”

With fists clenched and hair a sticking up every which way, Greg marches to Mycroft’s ridiculous suit of armor and seizes it forcefully, throwing it to the floor and making a horrible, clattering noise. He then pounds his fist on Mycroft’s desk, asking why Mycroft thinks he can treat a Scotland Yard policeman so rudely. He takes some pleasure in swooshing all Mycroft’s top secret papers off the desk and watching them float to the ground. 

He makes a mental note to bend Mycroft over that desk as soon as possible.

Finally, as he sees a smile creeping over Mycroft’s face, Greg walks to the big leather chair and puts his hands on either side, leaning close so that the man has nowhere to hide and no excuses.

He stares into Mycroft’s blue eyes, going dark and fiery now. He wants to dive in head first.

Greg drags his hands over smooth, naked forearms and feels a shiver pass from his own body to Mycroft’s and back again. And suddenly he knows—from the sly half-smile on the man’s face—that this has all been part of a plan. Probably set it in motion weeks ago. The fucking evil genius. He’s been manipulated, played by Mycroft so that he can get exactly what he wants.

Greg’s mouth covers Mycroft’s and presses hard and long enough to leave Mycroft gasping and straining for breath. Greg’s hand presses into Mycroft’s erection, then he claws at the waistcoat, sending three buttons flying.

Mycroft whispers breathlessly, “Oh dear, don’t tear it . . . let me unbutton the, the . . . never mind . . . _oh dear God_ . . ."

Greg growls and covers Mycroft’s mouth with his left hand, sliding his right down to unzip Mycroft’s trousers and find his way inside.

As first times often are, this one is awkward and desperate and brief. Greg feels he is trespassing on government property each time he strokes or bites or licks, so he is quick and as efficient as possible. Part of him is sure Mycroft will change his mind and toss him out to the street when they’re done. But the pleasure of feeling his fingers around both their cocks and hearing Mycroft try to choke back gasps as he comes is worth the risk.

Afterward, Mycroft recovers his breath and his senses much faster than Greg, who can’t seem to make the room stop spinning. Leading the copper to the bedroom to lie on his goosedown duvet, Mycroft takes his own sweet time stripping Greg of all his clothing and easing him into a slow, slick, not-at-all-desperate exploration. This time Mycroft is in control of the when and the how. He sucks the salt and come from Greg's fingers. Mycroft teases and circles, opening Greg patiently, pressing deep and deeper before they begin to move in sync.

Greg wants to see nothing now except the curve of Mycroft’s cheek in the moonlight, wants to hear only the shallow breaths and _yes, yes, yesses_ in his ear.

“Are you still angry with me?” Mycroft whispers as the sun is just beginning to appear between the bedroom curtains.

Greg seizes Mycroft’s wrist and grips it tight, pinning his arm to the bed and growling into his neck, “Furious. I’m fucking furious, Mycroft Holmes.”

And as he closes his eyes and buries his face in the pillow next to Mycroft’s cheek, Greg can sense that smug, beautiful Holmes smile.


End file.
